


London Calling

by RosaryMist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Depression, Diapers, Electrocution, Exhibitionism, Infantilism, Just poor Arthur, Lots of Hurt, M/M, Mental Institutions, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Really not for the faint of heart, Torture, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23002039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaryMist/pseuds/RosaryMist
Summary: In a fit of rage, America had admitted England into a mental asylum to teach him a lesson. The institute wasn't simply a medical psychiatry, instead it was a haven of darkness, reducing his former caretaker to a shadow of his former self. As the nations stared into the broken emeralds, they lamented their sweet memories with the once proud nation and they knew they could never rest until they could bring the kindness and warmth back to those empty irises.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), Canada/England (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), England/Japan (Hetalia), England/Portugal (Hetalia)
Comments: 109
Kudos: 180





	1. An Incorrigible Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision to be made. A decision to be regretted for. A decision that lasts, leaving a soul-scorching mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Since I am not in Soviet Russia, I unfortunately do not own Hetalia.
> 
> Warning: Nothing for this chapter aside from the obligatory swearing and Alfred being selfish. Future chapters will contain torture, violence, dub-con sexual brutality, drug overdose, depression and infantilism.
> 
> First published on FF.net on 29 February 2020. Published on AO3 on 3 March 2020 for Arthur's Mayuge's (Eyebrow's) Day.

"In every end, there is also a beginning."

― Libba Bray, _A Great and Terrible Beauty_

* * *

The World Conference had not been known to be productive, if at all. This day was no exception to the rule, as the conference hall had once again erupted in moans and arguments.

Squirming uncomfortably, England wanted nothing more but to head back to his hotel room for a well deserved rest. Ever the argumentative nation, he would be raising enquiries or engaging in a brawl with France if it were any other day.

Not today, though.

Fourth of July had not been kind to the British nation. It was a improvement compared to the previous year, in which he was rendered bedridden; but he was having a throbbing headache and heavy legs. America's boisterous voice offered no assistance to his case as it had inadvertently brought him down the painful memory lane, his body trembling as he struggled to suppress the stream of blood threatening to rush out of his sore, hurting throat.

Then, America yelled through the noises, the loud nation's voice cutting through all the racket.

"Dudes, let's go with my plan of building a superhero for world peace and prosperity! Come on, it's easy and we can all end this early and have fun at my birthday party instead of being stuck in this stuffy room for this boring ass meeting…" America's azure eyes twinkled in delight as he thought of the annual party; it was his big event and he could hardly wait a second longer.

England could feel tears welling up in his eyes as the reminiscence from that fateful day replayed in his head. That was precisely why he did not want to be here, hearing his former charge rambling about his independence celebration, cheering for the anniversary of the day he abandoned him. A cry tore its way out of his throat before he could stifle himself, and droplets of blood dripped down from his mouth as he scrambled in search for his handkerchief.

America's eyes darkened as the commotions were stopped by the scream, his gaze settling on the British nation.

"Artie, I thought you're feeling better since you come today and all that shit. You gotta come with us today, you hear? I will take good care of you and have fun at my awesomesauce party, you're gonna feel better in no time."

"No, I will not subject myself to your humiliation!" Emerald burning in fury, the British nation's voice broke in emotion. "I won't go and celebrate the day you said good riddance to me!"

"You'll go." America's eyes narrowed. "Even if it means I'll have to twist your arm. I have a surprise in store for you and I'm not gonna let you miss it!"

"No means no, America." Voice thick with hurt and anger, England glared at his former child. "Haven't you done enough? Haven't I suffered enough for your glee?" Sighing in exasperation, his tone was filled with exhaustion and defeat. "Just stop this childish act. You can't expect everything to go your way. I am not to be toyed with at your whims and fancies."

"You're just stuck in the past, dreaming and wishing that I'm that little boy again who you can dump and profit from any time! What's wrong with how I am now?"

Blond locks had shielded England's irises as he kept his head down. "Things were better then, won't you agree?"

"Duh, no because I am perfectly happy with where I am standing right now! That's all in the past now, there's nothing you can do to change it!"

He expected England to remain quiet without a comeback, but the petite nation had surprised him as he muttered. "No… All it takes is a spell…"

"A spell? Now who's the childish one? Magic doesn't exist, old man! It's merely your imagination!"

"It does! I know you can't see it, but I swear that it does! Just like the unicorn I have gifted you!"

"It's just your mind playing tricks on you! You're having delusions, and I didn't say it to your face because I know you're lonely and desperate!"

"You pride yourself as being my guardian, but what kind of guardian won't even attend their kid's birthday party and ignore the fact that they have grown up? Shouldn't you be proud?" Anger shrouded the superpower's eyes. He had prepared to turn a new leaf concerning his relationship with the other nation, and he wouldn't have his wish denied. Since when did a superpower fail to get his desires fulfilled in the world? "A bad one, that's what! So you only bother to be kind when I'm your obedient golden boy, huh? You're just like that crazy king of yours! I'm glad I left, you're a cold-blooded lying tyrant who doesn't even try to be understanding! I don't need a lunatic like you, not now, not ever!"

A heavy silence fell upon the room. That was when Germany decided to take the matter into his hand and intervened.

"America, Britain, both of you stop at this instant! America, cease this topic!" Germany glared at the two English-speaking countries, though his eyes widened when he saw the stray tears that had fallen and dampened England's pale cheeks. "And Britain, go and rest up. You're excused."

After a stiff nod directed to Germany, England did not wait before hurrying out of the room, not wishing the embarrass himself further by letting every present nation witnessing him cry.

America stood up immediately, unwilling to let the other personification left his sight. "Wait, Arthur! Don't go!"

He closed the distance between them as he rushed to England's side, catching his wrist in his palm to pull him over.

His head lowered, England spit his words out, voice low but clear. "What? Staying for further insults? I am not interested in that, farewell."

Then he disappeared, leaving America gaping at his retreating figure.

In his haste to leave the room, England had failed to notice his star-shaped wand had fell out of his pocket.

The star's gentle glow lit up the floor, but it was neglected and forgotten.

* * *

The meeting had ended with tension in air.

America kicked the pebbles in frustration on his way back home, his festive mood was effectively ruined.

That was when he overheard a conversation between two of his citizens.

"Hey, how's your sister? Still the same?"

"Yeah, I don't see any hope of that changing soon. She is still suffocatingly clingy, insisting on taking care of me as if I am still a child! Well, sorry to break the news, but I have grown up and am perfectly capable. If anyone needs caring, it is her with her childish fantasy of magic and fairies. It was cute when it lasted, but we are both adults now and she should leave that la la land behind ages ago!"

America's ears perked up.

He might not have known them personally, but the sister mentioned reminded him of a certain Brit. Claiming that magic was real and being stuck in the past, wasn't them awfully similar?

"I think you should really consider taking her to a psychiatrist. This looks like a severe case and the longer you wait, the worse it will become. If I have to say it, it sounds like she is suffering from a case of schizophrenia."

"Schizophrenia?"

"You did say she is seeing hallucinations. A disability to differentiate imaginations and reality is a clear sign of it."

England had always been rambling about his fairies and imaginary friends. Perhaps… he was suffering from the same ailment this girl had? He wasn't sure if a nation would suffer from mental illnesses like their human children, but the flashback of England's words had reinforced his determination.

_No._

He would not have him speak to him like that. He had been trying to mend their relationship for _centuries_ , but the other personification had done nothing other than pushing him away. Some timeout might work wonders, and England would realise he needed the contacts and interactions, knowing it was better if he just accepted America was a grown nation who could stand on his own and deserve his respect and amiability.

A mental institution might be what he had been looking for the entire time to change England into a better person. It would certainly do him good if he would let go of those fantasies he had and started to forge friendship with real nations and people.

Pulling out his phone, America swiftly typed in search of England's new residence, waiting in bated breath as the search results were pulled up by his ever trustworthy search engine.

That was when a photo caught his attention. Located on a faraway island, the institute was isolated from bustling civilisation. It was nigh impossible to find unless you knew what you were looking for.

* * *

_**The Sanctuary Psychiatric Hospital** _

_"Welcome to Your New Life!"_

Review:

4/5 by _acaringmom101_

_My daughter was admitted here two years ago. She comes back to us as the obedient girl before it all went wrong. The staff here has done a wonderful job for our family!_

_The only concern here is that transportation has been a hassle. It is secluded on an island, making visits scarce and difficult._

5/5 by _newlifeprospect_

_My son was in need of serious medication before being sent here. This is a perfect sanatorium for security and privacy. Thankfully he's been finally getting better after all those asylum admissions!_

5/5 by _wonderfultransformation_

_My brother returned to our household a changed person. He was nice and quiet, nothing like the paranoiac man I have gotten used to. I can't thank this institution enough!_

* * *

_Perfect._

Knowing that England's royal family would not be pleased with his idea, a remote asylum was the best bet for hiding his former brother's whereabouts. It was highly probable; no, scratch that; it was certain that a diplomatic row would break out between their countries if they were to find out.

_Enough was enough._

He wasn't going to back out of this just for a fear of backlash. England needed to be taught a lesson to treat him as an equal and actually be _considerate_ when he was extending a hand of friendship.

Before he could regret it, he dialed the number listed on the website.

"Hello, this is the Sanctuary Psychiatric Hospital. How can I help you?"

"Hey, I want to admit a patient to your wards. The name's Arthur Kirkland, a Brit aged 23." The words felt strange on his tongue. He had never called England by his full human alias; and the first time he used it, it was sending him locked away in a lunatic asylum.

"That's unfortunate. Can I have more information on the symptoms the patient displays so we will know what to expect on arrival?"

"He sees… things. Things that don't really exist, fairies, pixies and unicorns; you name it, you get it. I heard it is the symptom of some difficult s-word. And he still treats me like I'm still his baby boy even though I have left ages ago, I'm sure that's some unhealthy obsession there. He won't go down without a fight, so you all can expect things will get steamy. Teach him a lesson, alright? I'm counting on you guys."

"Schizophrenia? That sounds like a case of it. Coupled with obsession and violence tendency, he would likely be confined to a maximum security ward given how dangerous he is. You have done a good job in in contacting us, the society would be safer with him in our care."

He nodded even though the operator could not see him. _This was it. I have done it._

"Can I have your name and your relationship to the patient? We have to make sure you are a immediate family."

"I'm Alfred F. Jones." He paused when he thought of who England was to him. _Guardian? Brother? Friend? Ally? Love?_ At this point, he could no longer tell. Despite he had fought a war over it, he knew it would be safest to go with "brother". "... Brother. I'm his brother. He used to take care of me when I was young."

"Thanks, Mr Jones. Please tell us where he is so we can arrange transportation to retrieve him immediately."

The nations often had their regular meetings at the United Nations building in New York, and America was privy to the information of their residence so updates and notifications could be readily given to the participating nations. England was no exception, not to mention he had settled down in a comfortable routine concerning accommodations whether he arrived at New York for a meeting. It only took seconds to find out which hotel he had booked and which room he was staying in.

"Noted. Anything else you may want us to take care of?"

His decision would not be popular among Canada and France. Causing a huge scene when they were capturing Arthur was going to blow this, and America knew better to let such small details brought his plan down.

"Get him in discreet, don't let people know you are there to capture him and protect his identity. His socialising circle is fairly large and I don't want people poking their noses in where they don't belong. I am his only relative, and any others had disowned him already or simply didn't care." It was a blatant lie, but America was no stranger to lying.

"You can reach me by this number. Give me a call once he has been transferred."

Ending the call, America took a long stride to open the front door of his house, bathing himself in the joyous lights and laughter of his Independence Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Nations usually call others by their country name during meetings. In Arthur's case, he is usually referred to as "Britain" by them unless he's with his brothers. Francis is a notable exception since he has been calling him Angleterre ever since they have met, same with nations who have know him for a long time and do not bother with changing how they call him. Alfred is never one to follow these rules and regulations, tending to call them by nicknames instead.


	2. Spirited Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only takes a tumble to lead to darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks for all of your heartwarming comments!! I love you all! :3
> 
> Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya. 
> 
> Warning: Poor Arthur and violence deployed during the fight.

“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,  
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,  
It lies behind stars and under hills,  
And empty holes it fills,  
It comes first and follows after,  
Ends life, kills laughter.”  
― J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Hobbit_ , _or There and Back Again_

* * *

His vision was foggy, as if he had been blindfolded. England could not recall how he had made his way back to his hotel room, all he could felt was the saltwater dripping down his face, as if he was submerged in it.

_“You used to be so… big.”_

_Used to be._

He clutched his chest tightly as he fell onto the bed; his every heartbeat had become a painful reminder with the pounding. Curling up with his arms hugging his knees, he pulled himself into an embrace, as if he was in a warm, loving hug instead of his own warmth.

_Don’t be a liar._

He could still remember his words, his soft mutter to his colonies. His children. Yet, a carefully constructed web of lies was all he had to fend off the loneliness in the long night.

Only when he was alone, he could let his tears fall freely. Any weaknesses could be easily exploited in international diplomacy, and England was aware that friendship was rare between nations, especially for him, the crowned “Black Sheep of Europe”.

The angry, frustrated tears streamed down his face, only being wiped away when he heard a knock on his door. England rolled over, not wanting to face anyone when his eyes were puffy and red, wishing the person on the other side of the door would go away once they realised he wasn’t going to answer the door. His visitor was persistent, as several knocks soon followed the first one. His guest resorted to lock picking when they did not hear any movement being made from the occupant in the room, fully intended to break into his suite regardless of whether he was welcomed or not. It did not take long for the door to give way to his determined companion as the doorknob turned and he stepped into England’s personal space, approaching the bed without any hesitation.

He did not bother to look at the figure closing in. Eyes remaining closed, he called his guest softly. “Frog.”

Nothing ever escaped France’s watchful eyes. The nation of love had always been perceptive when it came to emotions; to him, England was wearing his heart on his sleeve. They had been childhood rivals and friends, and France was secretly pleased that it allowed him to be the only one who could read England like an open book. He was special, just like how England was special to him. England would always be his dearest enemy, even with time marching on.

France approached the bed without making a noise, his violet eyes filled with worry as he stared at the smaller nation. Despite all their differences, he cared about the little island lying off his coast.

He tugged the quilt up to cover England properly, taking his seat at the bedside. “Angleterre? Amerique didn’t mean that. He can be effronté (1), but he cares about you.”

“Frog, don’t lie to me. He wouldn’t say that if he does." England’s voice was subdued in defeat. As glorious as his history might be, his happiest time had been spent with his colonies, taking care of them and seeing them grow into the fine nations he knew they were. To hear that one of his charges had deemed him an unfit guardian had hurt far more than the scathing remarks he had received from any other nations.

“He wants your présence (2) at his birthday party. He had always wanted that, mon cher (3). Inconsiderate he may be, he only invites you with the best intentions.”

“It has always felt like a humiliation. Why would I want any part in the celebration of the day he drove me away from his life?” England had tried to mask his genuine feelings with frustration and anger, but devastation and desperation slipped through his voice, as if he was challenging the French nation to change his mind.

“Mon petit lapin (4), you had never seen Amerique when he was worried sick about you! Mon dieu (5), both of you are never honest about your feelings for each other!”

“Frog, we’re brothers. Must you suggest such an indecent implication?” He would continue his rant, but stopped abruptly when he registered who he was speaking to. “Forget it. I should not expect anything less from a pervert.”

Hands across his chest, France feigned hurt as he pretended to clutch his heart in pain. “Mon ami (6), how you have wounded me!” He scooted closer to his companion’s bed, preparing to pounce on him and feel his rump.

England rolled himself over, but not without sending a glare to France’s way. “Get off me, git!”

It would be better not to show it, but France could not stop the smile that had found its way to his face. His feisty friend had been back, and he gave himself a pat on the back for successfully distracting him. An grumpy Arthur was better than a sad Arthur, after all.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, you insufferable idiot!” A flying pillow hit him right square in the face.

“Oh hon hon hon! As if this will stop l’amour (7) -” Shrugging off the pillow, France gathered England in his arms. England flailed in his embrace, but relented once he realised it was a comforting hug instead of the usual lecherous attempts.

“Frog, you will be needed at...” He didn’t finish the sentence, knowing that he didn’t need to. France understood, as usual.

“Angleterre, maybe it’s better for me to stay, non (8)?”

Emerald eyes wavered, but a shake of head was given as a reply. “No… You should go. You have won that war with him; he must want you there.”

He could tell England hadn’t forgiven his part in the Revolutionary War and it was better not to push it, but a friend in need was a friend in need. He couldn’t stand the sight of the watery eyes, a vast contrast to the strong, prideful Englishman that he was secretly honoured to call a confidant.

“Arthur…”

“No.” Turning his head to the window, the English nation avoided his glance, shying away from his touch. His voice was resolute. With a heavy heart, France got that was the sign for him to take his departure.

“Fine… but tell me if you need me, oui (9)? It won’t do if mon lapin feels lonely and moi (10) am not there to warm your bed.” Knowing that the Brit wouldn’t appreciate his last sentence, France escaped the room before any sharp objects could be thrown his way, hoping that his endeavour to lighten the mood had worked.

“Bloody frog! Is sex all he has in his small brain?” England complained, but his voice held no bite as he realised what the Frenchman was doing. He would die rather than telling France he was grateful for his support and comfort, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Retreating to his bed after locking the door, England had snuggled into the bed covers without any hesitation. Given his usual routine, England would not retire to his bed without a hot meal and his daily dose of warm tea, but his fatigue had caught up to him once France had left and there was nowhere for him to direct his attention to. Before he knew it, he had fallen into a deep slumber, tired from all the crying and running in the day.

* * *

He was in a fitful rest when the lock on his guest room door was picked. Groggy and dazed, the British nation fumbled as he rose to face his uninvited visitors. His fists tightened as he noticed the military face masks and the protective gear his intruders were wearing. It was clear that they were not coming in a gesture of goodwill, and he fully intended to give them a run for their money.

The British Empire had always been known for his tenacity. Especially when it was against all odds.

Emerald eyes scrutinising, England rapidly devised a strategy as he made the first strike. Being outnumbered by twelve to one, England knew he would need to secure his victory by wits.

The men were stout and staunch, putting the Brit at a disadvantage if it came to an exchange of physical prowess. All hope was not lost though, as his lithe body had allowed nimble movements, which he fully intended to utilise to his fullest. Identifying the leader of the group was effortless for him, who had had countless encounters with men of different nature, kind or harsh, noble or despicable. His body language had betrayed his status among them, and his team members were not so subtle with their glances.

The guard squad had struck once they circled him, as if he was a prey among a pack of wolves. Sidestepping the first guard who launched himself at him, England couldn’t help but be thankful for his quick reflexes. His experience of being chased and hunted as a child had groomed him up to be quick and alert with readiness to battles.

Punching the guard creeping upon him in the stomach by his left, England had not paused to deliver a swift kick in the groin to the man closing on him. He fought dirty, and he wasn’t ashamed about it. Underhanded tactic it might be, it was effective at taking down his enemies and securing his victory.

A groan was heard behind the mask and his attacker flinched away from him. England smirked as the reaction did not escape his watchful eyes, though his mirth was cut short by another assault. England dived under the guard who lounged at him, using his small stature as an advantage. His attacker growled as his target escaped from his grasp and he skidded to an abrupt stop to prevent himself from crashing to the ground.

Frantically surveying his surroundings, England knew he had to get his hands on a weapon quick as he knew he was no match for them regarding physical prowess when he was stifling the stream of warm blood from spilling out of his throat. His eyes brightened as his gaze landed on a lamp. Gripping the brass base of the lamp tightly, England prepared himself to take an offensive stance as he rushed forward to bash the leader’s head, but he was stopped midway as a tall man moved to shield his target. Swinging the lamp wildly, England’s movements were erratic as he aimed to confuse his enemies and strike on the element of surprise. His opponent had not seen it coming as the former pirate rammed his head, downing him instantly.

Knowing that the coordination of his enemies would not be broken until their commander was taken down, England refocused his attention on him. Sneaking behind him, England’s stealthy mission was interrupted by a slipped moan. His body had always been weak during the period around the American Independence Day, and this year was no exception. Engaging himself in combat during this trying time was the most challenging for him, but the nation pushed his body to stay strong and carry on, knowing that he had no choice but to defend himself against those unknown aggressors.

To his horror, his body failed him as another soft pant leaked through his lips, and blood spilt following the groan, audible enough to alert the commander of his intention, who then swiftly marched up to him. Before he could catch his breath, England’s head was slammed heavily against the wall, knocking him out instantly. His limp body slumped to the ground as his consciousness slipped away.

“A feisty one, huh? Luckily we were warned beforehand.” The leader snorted as he stared at the body beside his feet. He had to admit that he did underestimate their opponent. Who would have thought such a delicate being had packed so much power?

“This one will be fun to play with.” A guard replied, delivering a sharp kick to England before hoisting him up. One of his teammates fetched a pair of handcuffs and snapped them on the wrists of the unconscious nation.

The guards were about to drag England out of the room when their leader called for a halt.

“Wait! Restrain his legs too. Make sure he can’t make a run for it. This is a tough capture, better to be safe than sorry.” His subordinates nodded obediently as they bent down to chain the lean legs together.

The team had cleaned any evidence of the scuffle up before locking the door of the room. They wouldn’t want to alert the hotel of a kidnapping, after all.

It wasn’t the first time when they had taken their patient through the means of abduction. With ages of practice, they were experts in subduing their unwilling victims in the late light without being spotted. They had made quick work in leaving the hotel, forgoing the grand entrance as they carried England to the backhouse staircase, where a van was waiting for the unit and their new cargo.

The van was atramentous with its windows shaded and barred. Opening the door of the van, they roughly shoved England into the vehicle, shrugging as he landed with a thud. Once all of the unit had boarded the van and made themselves comfortable, it took off to the darkness ahead.

* * *

The screen flashed as a notification of a new message had popped up.

“Dear Mr Jones, we are pleased to inform you that the patient has been retrieved and delivered to our care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> French-  
> (1). effronté: brash  
> (2). présence: presence  
> (3). mon cher: my dear  
> (4). mon petit lapin: my petite rabbit  
> (5). mon dieu: my God  
> (6). mon ami: my love  
> (7). l’amour: love  
> (8). non: no  
> (9). oui: yes  
> (10). moi: me
> 
> This is somewhat a filler chapter, but seeing Arthur in action is great and we get a glimpse of the relationship between Arthur and Francis! Please forgive me if the fighting scene is subpar, I haven’t written many of those before. 
> 
> I have studied some basic French, but I’m by no means fluent, so please correct me if you spot any mistakes made and I’ll be eternally grateful for that! I honestly love how Francis call Arthur mon petit lapin, it’s endearing and suitable for Artie, he does resemble an adorable, little rabbit! 
> 
> Be prepared for the next chapter, it’s going to get much darker as we’ll see Arthur’s arrival at the psychiatric hospital, which the staff “welcome” him. The rating will probably go up when it is posted. Please stay tuned!


	3. Pride and Prejudice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When your fate is sealed by your beliefs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the encouraging reviews and kudos! I have never expected this and I’m overjoyed to see that you are excited for this fic’s next installment, I hope this does not disappoint. By the way, the rating has gone up given the content of this chapter. And this is awfully long too, almost double the length of the previous chapters… 
> 
> Disclaimer: I wish I own Hetalia, but I sadly don’t. This chapter is inspired by The Facility by TianShan, whose idea has given me a plot focusing on the aspect of “re-raising” as a form of punishment. 
> 
> Warning: Nudity, sexual violation, violence, languages, and humiliation. Poor Arthur, he doesn’t deserve this at all. Sadly, this is just the beginning of Hell. It will get disturbing, since our dear Arthur is strong and the asylum aims to break him and mold him into an obedient doll.

“It's not given to people to judge what's right or wrong. People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more than in what they consider right and wrong.”

― **Leo Tolstoy,** **_War and Peace_ **

* * *

Eyelids fluttered as they gave way to reveal the forest green irises, blinking as only darkness greeted him. With a throbbing pain on the back of his head, he was reminded that he was knocked unconscious. Searching for the last memory in his mind before he had ended up in this predicament, he remembered being attacked by a group of armed guards amid his sleep in the hotel. The thought jolted him wide awake with panic. 

_Where is he now? What do they want from him?_

The amount of men that were sent after him confirmed his suspicion that it was a designated attack against him; an assault in afterthought would not be so well planned and executed with such precision. His train of thoughts was interrupted as the door of the van slid open and the dim lights from the lamp post lining the streets slipped past the crack of the door and shroud him in a gentle, glowing light. 

Two figures leaned forward and grabbed his arms, the chains rattling as he was roughly pulled out the vehicle. Looking downwards, he found his limbs shackled like a prisoner. England tried to stand, but the cramps resulting from the bondage had him swaying on his feet. Before he could fall over, he was lifted to the broad shoulders of one of the guards and carried like a sack of potatoes. 

It didn’t take long before they entered a building. The receptionist looked up, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. 

“Another new one.” Came the gruff reply from one of the guards as he lifted his helmet, his comrades following suit. “Man, what a catch. I am done having this stuffy helmet on.”

“Doctor Myers is waiting for the new patient on the fourth floor. Please hurry up to send him to diagnosis, he is getting impatient.” 

England was steered to the lift, squeezed tight as the squad entered right after him, leaving him no room for movement and forced to be on the receiving end of their hungry looks. He was relieved when the arrival bell rang and he was pushed out of the lift, finally able to breathe again. Though it was getting late, the doctors in clean white robes were still walking around, carrying folders and clipboards containing documents and the conditions of their patients as they spared a glance to the British nation before refocusing on their work. 

Stopping in front of a room located at the end of the corridor, the head of the guards knocked at the door with labelled with “Dr. H. Myers”. 

“Come in, I have been waiting.” Came the voice behind the door, a hint of impatience apparent in his tone.

Yanking the door open, England was ushered inside the room. A middle-aged man was sitting in front of the desk, scribbling with an astute posture. He only turned to his visitors when his door slammed shut, his grey eyes scanning the guards critically. 

“You look roughed up. This one gives you a hard time?"

The men nodded in agreement. “He’s violent. He did fight surprisingly good for such a little thing.”

The doctor nodded before turning to England. "Mr Arthur Kirkland, right? Welcome to The Sanctuary Psychiatric Hospital. I am Hector Myers, your doctor.”

England nodded numbly. It wasn’t hard to come to the conclusion that he was transferred to a hospital with the sanitised environment and the attires the staff were wearing. 

“We have received a call notifying us that you display symptoms that require our services. I will ask you questions and you would answer them truthfully for your own benefit. I advise you to think twice before lying, we do have our ways to detect lies. Am I clear?” 

That had confirmed his theory that someone had sent those men after him. 

“Let’s begin, shall we? According to our contact, you claim that fairies are real and you can interact with them. Is that true?” 

A resounding no would be the safest bet, but England knew his magical companions would be hurt from his denial. The sad eyes of the kappa he had a brief encounter within Japan’s home had made its mark on his mind; and he was afraid that they would suffer the same fate, lying abandoned and forgotten. His childhood friends had always tried to soothe him when the future seemed bleak, and to deny their existence was a betrayal in itself. The last thing he could do was offer his loyalty and belief; it might not be the smartest choice, but a faithful one. 

“Yes.” He gave a short and brief answer, unwilling to tell any more information for it to be used against him. He knew his friends would be telling him to lie, to say he wasn’t blessed to witness the world of magic and wonder, shaking their heads and tears welling up as they realised the nation they had watched over for centuries had sealed his fate with his honesty. The memories of the nights he spent with fairies, nymphs, and unicorns were vivid as if it was yesterday. instead of a time so ancient that the land was still largely inhabited. The age of science and industry had made humans turn against them, the dwindling belief made the thread tying the world of the faeries and the reality wither and shrivel. He refused to participate in severing the ties his lifelong friends depended on for their continued existence as the figure of the kappa retreating to the woods pulled his heartstring again. He would not trade the very essence, the life and soul of his friends to save his own skin. 

He would gladly take the pain and torture if it meant they could dance in their elusive movements and sing in their angelic voices again.

“Surely you understand they are just your imaginations? They are just a fairytale with no proof that they ever existed.” 

“You’re wrong. They are my friends.” 

“That’s bold of you to say so, Arthur. Ask anyone around here and they will say the opposite. And you say you befriended them; next you will say magic exist and you are going to put me under a spell.”

Admittedly, England did have a strong belief in magic as well, seeing he frequently performed sorcery and had always taken pride in it. Keeping his gaze to the floor, England decided against speaking his mind, knowing it would only dig himself a deeper hole. 

As if he could read his mind, Doctor Myers moved on to another topic, one that could rile the temperamental nation up without fail. 

“They also informed us about your obsessive tendencies towards your younger siblings, with an inability to see them as adults. Do you think you are acting in their best interest by manipulating them into obeying you?” 

“I did no such thing! Are you implying I am simply controlling and using them to my own benefits?” His sudden rise of voice caught the guards off guard and he shrugged them off and marched to the doctor, rage clear in the bright green eyes. “I love them. Of course I care about them! They are all I have as a family!” He rarely expressed his affection, too embarrassed and shy to put his heart on display, but in a spurt of anger, he had let it slide. 

“No? Why are you furious, then? They must be annoyed at you and eager to be rid of your presence. Deny all you want, but it won’t change the fact; it can’t be twisted like how you shape your siblings’ opinions on you in your mind.”

Raising his fists, England was about to give the sententious doctor a piece of his mind before he was pulled back a guard who recovered and yanked the chains on his wrist, tugging him away from Doctor Myers. 

“Tsk, what a violent specimen, resorting to fists when he can’t face the truth.” He snorted, turning his attention away from England to scrawl more notes on his booklet. 

“Well, Mr Kirkland, I regret to inform you that you suffer from severe schizophrenia. You clearly show symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder, seeing how _attached_ you are with your younger siblings. I bet you can’t let them go and always suffocate them with your so-called love and affection. Being as controlling and temperamental as you are, it makes a highly probable case for personality disorder. Not to mention your explosive temper, it sounds like a case of intermittent explosive disorder may also be observed.” 

“There’s nothing to worry about with you in our care, however.” Doctor Myers’s lips tugged upwards, morphing into a pleasant smile that many would find attractive if not for the words coming out of the thin lips. “It will be easily fixed by having a fresh start, after all. All it takes is a re-raising.” 

“You will be staying in Room 704 during your time with us. Don’t think of escaping, it is a maximum security ward. From now on, you will be treated as a newborn baby as you start anew.” 

“No, I will not have you treat me in such a degrading manner…!” 

Doctor Myers had ignored his protest as he leaned down to unlock a drawer under his desk, a victorious smirk on his face as he reemerged. “Be a dear and wear this for me, would you?” England’s face paled in disbelief and disgust as he saw the fluffy white item on his hand. 

_A diaper._ As though he was an incontinent infant. 

“No, I am not going to wear a nappy for God’s sake!” Struggling against his shackles wildly, England’s fear had reached its height as the physician stood up and approached him, still holding the diaper.

"Oh, you are not the only one. Most of the patients we received have refused to wear one when we ask nicely, but all of them have begged us to diaper them afterward. I look forward to seeing you in one, and I know you will soon be yawning for it.” 

"Take him away. I expect him to start his treatment tomorrow morning.” 

Two guards stepped forward, grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the office swiftly. “Get along now, you have to be cleaned and changed before you are sent to your room. There’s no time to waste. We need to inspect you thoroughly and shave your hair down there.” The one on his left laughed heartily, sneaking a hand down to stroke his privates. “Bald as a newborn baby, you heard the doc, didn’t ya?”

The Briton held his head high, trying to ignore how he was touched. His fair share of being groped by France had made it easier to feign indifference. Yet, France would never treat him like a toy, a mere _plaything._ His lingering touch might be a ploy to tease him, but England could always sense the emotions behind.

_Love, care, respect._

They might banter every time they met, but France had always been tender and thoughtful in his touches, even if they were quarreling at the same instance. 

He was once again led to the lift. which stopped on the seventh floor. The ambiance of the seventh floor was a deep contrast to that of the fourth floor, transforming from a hospital to cell-like wards that resembled a prison. 

“Well, that’s the maximum security for ya. Now off to the showers you go, you will be cleaned and shaved there. You will have a more comprehensive tour of the facility tomorrow. Tonight you will change into your garbs and head straight to bed. Understand?”

England glared at him. He didn’t feel like talking after being vulgarly touched and knowing he could do nothing to stop them. 

Passing by countless numbers of cells, they finally stopped at a barred gate. England was escorted inside to the open space, standing in the middle of the guards on the white tile. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Off with your clothes, we need to give you a frisk first.”

Raising his arms to defend himself against any attempt of the guards ripping the shirt off, the Briton shook his head. _No. No. No. They can’t see me naked...!_

"A stubborn one, I see. Let’s see if you still proud after this!” The arms of a guard standing behind him circled his waist and he worked to unclasp the belt and tugged his trousers down. 

A soft gasp escaped from England’s lips as he felt the cold air sweeping at his bare legs as he leaned down to grab his trousers. His hands were yanked away before he could touch the fabric, and his shirt was removed in an instant. 

His struggles had earned him a harsh shove to the wall as his captors tore his Union Jack boxers down, laying him bare for their ravenous eyes to see.

With his hands chained, England could not cover his modesty and the only thing he could do was look away in shame, finding the white tile of the bathroom to be the most interesting thing to stare at as he tried to take his mind off from how his crotch had been ogled at. 

The commander laughed as he reached out to pat the golden patch of hair between the nation’s legs, causing trembles to his sensitive body. Delighted at the response he received, the man grabbed England’s cock and started to stroke it mercilessly, grinning as he saw the blush on the Brit’s face. Tears welled up in the wide green eyes as he was forced to endure the humiliation, unable to escape. 

“Not so proud and strong now, huh? Touch his needy hole, would you? It will surely do this little slut a favour.” 

His call was soon answered by his followers. A man had taken on the order as he stepped forward, a malicious glint shining in his beady eyes as calloused hands grasped at his bottom and pulled it apart. A stubby finger prodded at his puckered hole before pushing it in forcefully. His head thrown back as he screamed at the pain of being entered without any lubrication, but no mercy was given by his assailant as he rapidly added a finger and started scissoring him, drinking in his misfortune gleefully. His shame had multiplied when he felt a sticky substance started flowing out of him and dripped down his thighs. 

“Look, he’s wet already! Man, you’re right, he must be desperate. Hey, bitch, enjoying yourself?” The fingers inside him started to poke around inside him, trying to find the sensitive nub of nerves. 

“Ha, good that you have nothing inside you aside from your juices!” 

“He is dripping, what a show we have here!” 

His spectators whistled at the sight of him being molested. He had been subjected to torture for numerous times in his lifetime, usually for the extraction of information, but the feeling of intrusion into his most private place left a more scarring impact; for once, he felt _filthy_.

A soap was roughly dragged along his hair and body, but England barely registered it. His body trembled when his sweet spot was being brushed by the fingers. His shiver did not go unnoticed, and the fingers kept their lingering touch on the nub before it was mercilessly massaged. 

“His hair is soft, shame that it has to go. Pass me the foam, this baby is going to get himself shaved till he’s baby-smooth!” 

Boisterous roars reverberated around the shower room. One of the men opened a stainless steel cabinet and grabbed a labelled glass bottle, checked it before handing it to their leader. 

The commander ripped the cap open and poured the content in his palm, working it into a lather and applying it to England’s crotch. The foam was evenly rubbed on his privates and inner thighs until his legs are also covered with the froth. He did not have much hair on his legs and his chest, it seemed like his eyebrows had monopolised all of his hair growth. And they caught sight of it. 

“Does all of your hair go to your huge eyebrows? Your legs are hairless.” 

He jumped when a stream of water splashed him. The guard turning on the water tap had given no warning before he held up the high-pressure water hose, the impact of the pumped out water hitting him painfully. It quickly washed the cream and the dissolved hair away, leaving him hairless and exposed.

“There, smooth and clean.” The leader was on him once the water tap had been turned off, fondling his now bald privates. 

A rough towel was draped over him, wiping him dry. The soap did nothing to cleanse him. He stood quietly when they slipped a pair of white rubber booties on his bare feet. 

“Put this on. Be quick, or we are walking you out naked.” A white material was flung his way, and laughter once again erupted when it landed on his face. Pulling it off his face, the Briton found himself holding a pair of plain white briefs. His hands trembling as he hastily pulled the undergarment up to cover himself up from lecherous eyes. 

“Stand straight.” He backed away once he saw the straitjacket the guard had taken out of a closet. The canvas-made garment was rough and hard, uncomfortable, itchy against the skin, and reeking of chemicals and disinfectants. The commander, who had been standing beside him, soon caught him by the arm and pushed him forward as a group of four moved to surround him and keep him cornered for their companions to force him into the restrictive wear. They had refused to let the chance to shame him go to waste as he was pushed against the shower room wall when they secured the clasps on the back and the crotch strap, evidenced by how they had deliberated tied the strap tight enough that his girth was straining against the thin briefs he was wearing, exposing him to lustful stares. Tugging the strap several times, they were waiting in bated breath for the friction created to arouse him again. The men whistled as they saw it came to fruition, a small spot of wetness materialising on the white material. The guards whistled as the commander took the reins again, tugging it and rubbing it against his erection until he was hard and dripping, staining the front of the briefs that it was hard to miss. 

“Good boy. See, it’s not so difficult, is it? Gotta make yourself memorable somehow, and what’s better than being the one who gets hard from being admitted? Let’s get going so they can all see you in your glory, hmm?” Signalling his subordinates to start walking the nation to his ward, the commander followed closely behind, watching their prisoner. England kept his head held high, unwilling to think or look at the wetness he felt between his legs. Leaving the shower room, they had taken the path back to the corridor filled with cells. 

He was marched down the pristine corridor, forced to parade himself for all to see as he was escorted to his cell. Orderlies and nurses occupied the narrow pathway, carrying food and medicines for delivery; but they had paused in their work to send curious gazes to the stomping footsteps produced by the boots the guards flanking England’s sides were wearing. 

The new patient had caught their attention immediately. 

He was _beautiful._ Shining blonde locks, soft porcelain skin, shimmering green eyes. He was ethereal, delicate as a rose, complete with a strong spirit being his thorns. Even if he was dressed in a straitjacket and a flimsy pair of underwear didn’t dent his beauty. 

They found it harder to look away once they noticed the wet spot on the white underwear. 

“He is leaking when we’re tying his crotch strap. What a whore, he gets excited when he’s restrained. Probably has a fetish for it too.” The nurses blushed as the guard retold the tale, shy to know the details; but the orderlies jeered and leered at him, as if he was a piece of meat sitting on their plate meant to sate their hunger. He was guided along the corridor to his destination, with countless eyes fixed to his body, cruel laughter ringing in his ears and lascivious looks fixed on the stain that had put him to shame. 

Room 704 was a forlorn place. The titanium door emanated coldness, cold to touch and cold to feel; devoid of any emotions and warding any hope and cheer off. The lone window on the door was barred, reinforcing the idea that it was more of a prison than a ward, meant to punish instead of heal. 

England was shoved inside once the commander opened the door. Ushered into a world of blankness and bleakness, the Brit’s eyes blinked as he surveyed the room. 

Everything was white. It was a white padded room, void of any decoration except for a bed in the corner. The bed and pillow followed the white motif of the room, the standard of a suicide watch room in a mental hospital. 

“Grab me the welcoming pill for the high-risk ones. I am going to ensure he stays down for it.” Waving his subordinates away to retrieve the requested drugs. the commander hauled England to the bed, binding him to the bed using the restraining straps attached to it. 

“We’ve gone easy on you for your first day. It’s late so take your meds once they return and sleep.” He patted the bed as he spoke, eyes burning holes in the nation with a harsh glare.” Your rehab starts tomorrow, and we’ll come and get you for breakfast at eight. You will be eating at the canteen with other patients under supervision. We don’t want our little babies choking their food.”

“No, you’re not…” England bit back his scathing remark on how false the statement of being kind to him on the first day was, knowing there’s a more pressing matter on hand. 

“Wait… What are you going to feed me?” England knew it wasn’t going to be anything good, and he had to devise a plan to avoid swallowing it. He was never given a chance to do so, however.

“Why bother asking? You’re going to take it anyway." There was a knock on the door, and the other guards returned with a tray carrying a yellow pill bottle, a syringe containing a suspicious yellowish liquid, and a glass of water. 

“Right at time. Open your mouth, or I’ll force you to.”

England kept his mouth shut and turned his head away, refusing them in silence. The commander growled as he waved two of the guards to come closer to the bed. 

“Michael, pinch his nose. Jeremy, grip his neck. He will open his mouth when he’s suffocating just like usual.” The two named guards were easily recognisable, with Michael being the one who had stroked him outside the doctor’s office and Jeremy as the guard who had fingered him in the bathroom. He flinched away from their touch, but the straps had held him tight in place and he could do nothing to stop their advance. The two didn't waste any time in cutting off his oxygen supply for their leader to force the pill in. Knowing their intention, England held his breath defiantly. They were wrong if they thought he would succumb to them easily. 

“Haven’t learned your lesson, I see. Being rowdy will get you nowhere.” Raising his hand, he smacked England’s face with full force, leaving an angry mark in its wake. Slap after slap, the hits didn’t stop until England could feel his face burning and involuntarily let out a small cry of pain. That brief moment had become an opening to be abused as the pill was thrown into his mouth the second his mouth was open, and water was poured in so it slipped down his throat before he could spit it out. 

It didn’t stop there. Putting the now empty cup back to the tray. the commander grabbed the syringe next to it and plunged its needle to his thigh, emptying the content into his veins. His eyes widened and a soft gasp escaped him involuntarily. 

“See, you won’t escape it. Don’t try this with us again or your pretty face won’t be the only thing hurting next time.” With these words, the group of men left him to wallow in his misery. 

The door slammed with finality as England’s world shrunk to the small cell he was in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say no Iggy was harmed during the making of this fic, please believe me -shot-
> 
> Would you like to see more Iggy torture or the return of Francis and the introduction of Matthew and his two Oceanic brothers? These two chapters are interchangeable so let me know what you would like to see next in the reviews! 


	4. Birthday Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I close my eyes, I see you. When I open my eyes, I miss you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always heartwarming to hear from you, so thanks for the reviews and kudos! My apologies for this chapter being ridiculously late - I have recently moved to Britain so things had been a bit hectic in the previous months. I'm very sorry for the wait!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia and sadly never will. I am really happy to know that there is a new season for the anime though!

"But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it."

― **Calla Quinn,** _ **All the Time**_

* * *

True to his motto of "Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité" (1), France had always been a hospitable host. His parties had always been popular among his fellow nations, with the most extravagant one being hosted on his national day. Paris had always welcomed nations who flocked to the fashion capital for the event, looking for a good time along the Seine.

The Tricolore was flying along the Champs-Élysées, painting it red, blue, and white. The soldiers marching along the wide pavement had their backs up straight, their dignified posture matching that of the flags fluttering pridefully against the wind. The Bastille Day Parade had always been the biggest day of the year in France, and France had always looked forward to seeing the joyous faces of his people as they celebrated. Never one to be lost in a crowd, he had always involved himself in the celebration march.

Trotting in the frontline, France scanned through the crowd to locate his fellow nations, his eyes darting around in search of the dainty figure that would be standing proud, jutting his lips out to form a little pout at the sight of France. The sight had never failed to bring a teasing smile on his face; England would be furious if he ever muttered a word about his cuteness, but his adorableness was undeniable.

Brows furrowed, France's carefree expression was wiped off as he realised his favourite island nation had failed to make an appearance. He was present at his birthday parades without fail, standing at the same spot every year. It was an unspoken tradition for the two of them, for France to know where to look for him. England was still weaker than his usual self, given the day was only ten days away from America's Independence Day, but France would always found him leaning against a stone wall, shielding himself from the harsh sunlight as his smaragdine irises shone and shimmered.

Forcing a smile on his face, France turned his stallion away. Gripping the reins tightly, he suppressed his wish to gallop around his capital to find his elusive neighbour. Never one to spoil the moods of his people, France knew the procession had to continue regardless of his wish.

It felt like forever until the cavalcade ended. A sense of guilt had filled him as he knew he should be as joyous as his citizens, but he was far from happy, if at all. Not bothering to change, France dashed away to the place he knew England would be.

Mariage Frères.

Being the tea lover he was, England would not simply abandon his daily routine of afternoon tea. France might prefer coffee over tea, but the nation still offered plenty of options for a cup of tea. Prestigious as it was, it had piqued the curiosity of the British nation. France would never hear the petite nation admitting it aloud, but he knew he had loved what the teahouse offered as the young nation had never failed to make an appearance there whenever he found himself in Paris.

He was about to call out his name with a smirk that was reserved for his grumpy rival before he was forced to stop the familiar name blurting out. The messy mop of blonde hair was missing.

Dread filled France's heart as he realised that his neighbour wasn't sitting by the window, dainty finger clutching the teacup per usual. Not wasting any time, France left immediately with a mumbled apology to begin his search along the Seine. He had caught sight of England beside the Seine more than enough to know that he had secretly liked the river — likely due to how it reminded him of the Thames, though the younger nation would furiously deny it if confronted.

The Seine riverside was scattered with tourists and couples. If it was any normal day, France would sit on a branch, silently watching over the excited movements of the sightseers and listening to the loving murmurs of the lovers, placing down coins for the wandering performers, artists, and singers along the embankment. England would have said it was a place for lovesick fools, but the fact that England's bedside drawer had been filled with romantic poems and novels said otherwise of how he actually viewed love and romance, and it had not escaped France's attention.

Today, France was in no mood to relax and reflect, as he frantically searched for the petite nation. His heart sank as his search failed to find his intended target once again. There were times when they were not so amicable to each other, but England had always shown up in his capital, his heart for the special occasion, many times taunting and smirking, but there were rare times when his friend would offer him a true smile; a smile so beautiful that France wished he would smile more as it lit up the room and everyone beside him.

He might have laughed and jeered at England regularly, but once he wasn't there for a change, he found himself missing him terribly.

_Maybe he is just occupied. His government does give him a lot of work._

He had always wondered how could England accept such a high workload; he would go on strike if his own boss even thought of it. Yet, he could not shake the feeling of déjà vu away, no matter how hard he tried to shove his worry into the back of his mind.

* * *

The sun's retreating figure marked the beginning of the evening event, as the azure curtain of the sky rolled back to reveal its navy colour, with the shining silvery moon as the final touch lighting up the heart of France.

The host stood by the entrance of the intricate historical building that had been temporarily converted into an event hall for the nations. Having known each other for centuries, France could easily seek out a target in the queue in front of him, waiting to enter the premise for food, drinks, and the promise of a great night.

To his disappointment, England wasn't in the crowd.

France's throat tightened as he realised the British nation was not coming as he greeted the last nation in the line. With a heavy heart, he turned to enter the dining room, mindful to leave a gap as he closed the wooden door, as if he was leaving himself with the hope that England was simply late.

Known to be delicacies worldwide, French cuisine would never disappoint; not to mention when it was France himself who was cooking. Tonight however, France's heart was no longer on the food; he was poking at the food absentmindedly with his fork. His mind filled with the little rabbit across the channel, donning a green cloak with an adorable pout on his face, large emerald eyes trained on the coastline, waiting for his big brother France to come and pick him up in a warm embrace — his trance was broken as America's rambunctious laughter rang out through the hall, his mouth stuffed full as he shouted out something that France assumed was a comment about the food; what the young superpower was saying was indiscernible.

The food and wine lost their appeal to the French nation; there was no fun if he wouldn't be able to tease the Brit for his inability to cook and his poorly hidden love for France's cooking. Bored violets searching for anything that could put his anxiety to a temporary rest. Feeling a stare on him, the extravagant nation turned to find Canada eyeing him, biting his lips in unease as he contemplated France and the empty seat beside him.

_Matthieu. Of course, the ever sweet and kind Matthieu will notice._

Making his mind upon having a talk with the Canadian after the meal, France nodded at him, in which he received a smile in return. Once he had the confirmation that they could chat later, Canada turned his head to greet his two Oceanic brothers, passing a silent message as their eyes met.

It seemed like an eternity when the dinner finally came to an end and the nations were freed from the long dining table for mingling. It would be some time before the birthday presents would be presented to France, and they were left on the table placed at the front of the room by his fellow nations.

Purple irises scrutinised the mountain of gifts piling up on the ornate table, hunting for a carefully wrapped present decorated with flowers and herbs. England had never been good at voicing out his feelings, but the language of flowers had assisted him in conveying his emotions and words left unsaid.

He was certain that he had gone over every single present, but none of it had the unique touch of his neighbour; he would have recognised it anywhere. His heart thumping painfully as panic arose. They had known each other since they were small children frolicking in archaic grasslands; they had made flower crowns, picked berries, and explored the wilderness alongside. The sweet childhood memories had been molded into an age of rivalries as they entered their teenage years; they had spat, cursed, sworn against each other, fighting for glory, wealth, and power. They had been the dearest friends and the worst enemies, but one thing remained constant.

They would never miss the biggest moments of each other.

Bastille Day had been named as France's official birthday since the famous French Revolution, and England had never missed his big day. Frantic eyes looked up from the present stack, no longer interested in them, France started scanning the partying crowd of nations in search of someone who might be of help. His gaze landed on Canada, whose lilac eyes were focused on his furry companion, the polar bear's paws reaching for the chubby brown bird chirping in front of him. The more the merrier also rang true for the pets as the two were soon joined by an enthusiastic koala, her owner busy in wolving down the pile of pies in front of him. For once, she was no longer sending death glares to anyone who looked her way and simply wanted to enjoy herself.

Their national companions did not share the same sentiment. Canada met France's eyes as the quiet nation felt the intense gaze and started making his way over, the hint of worry only thinly veiled in his irises.

"Papa?" It did not take long for the North American to reach him, with New Zealand following him.

"Oui. Bonne nuit (1), Matthieu. Do you happen to see Angleterre anywhere?" Swirling to face the Canadian, France offered the younger nation a smile. It was a polite smile, reserved for business occasions or when France was trying to hide whatever that was troubling him.

"No, papa. I was wondering if you have seen Mr Arthur too… I have wanted to speak with him after the incident on Al's birthday, but I can't seem to contact him ever since. I am planning to speak to him today, but it seems like he hasn't come, eh."

"It doesn't seem like Mum… He'd never miss Francis' birthday." Joining into the conversation, New Zealand's warm eyes mirrored the perturbation shone in the eyes of the other two countries.

"He doesn't even leave me with a birthday present! My coeur (2) is wounded! Surely, Angleterre has always been rebellious and he has never shown an ounce of appreciation for me, but this is a new low!"

"I'm sure Mum doesn't mean to do this… Maybe something happened that he couldn't come - Oof!" New Zealand was supplying his input helpfully when Australia crashed into him, eager to participate in the conversation.

Offering a sheepish look to his brother, Australia quickly jumped into the chat. "Mates, what are you all on about? Is it about Mumsy? Sucks that he isn't here today, I want to show him my new pets, it'll be so funny! Francis, any idea where the pommie go?" A doleful expression did not suit the cheery, boisterous Australian, the pies, delicious as they were, were clearly not a good enough distraction for him.

Shaking his head, France felt increasingly anxious. England, being the protective parent, would never leave his children's call unanswered, not to mention leaving them hanging for over a week. July had always been harsh on the Brit, but France knew he would have done anything to get himself up the sickbed if it meant hearing from his former colonies again.

"Non, something isn't right… Doesn't mon petit lapin (3) prided himself to be the responsible one?" Although he was known for being emotional and dramatic, it didn't mean he did not know when to be serious.

Upon seeing France's expression, the three younger nations straightened up, knowing it was the time to get their act together.

"Are you with moi (4)? We are going to get to the bottom of this."

Three pairs of eyes stared back at the older nation. The mischievous glint in Australia's eyes was replaced by grave concern, a sight so rare that it was only seen during the world wars. Canada's gentle lilac hues were filled with distress for his former guardian; they had always been close and he would do anything to defend him from harm, even if England insisted he could protect himself. New Zealand's peaceful lime green eyes sparkled with determination, raring to go and investigate, not willing to stand by idly when the person who he regarded as his parent was likely to be in danger.

Their personalities might differ, but one thing was certain, They cared about the British nation and would stop at nothing to see him to safety.

All they wanted was for him to be safe and sound.

A wish that was a distant dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> French-
> 
> (1). Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity; the national motto of France.
> 
> (2). Bonne nuit: Good night.
> 
> (3). coeur: heart
> 
> (4). mon petit lapin: my little rabbit


	5. Fire and Brimstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A traumatic past. A despairing present. A bleak future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your support in the form of views, kudos, and comments! I am so happy to see that you like this story - This chapter is meant to be a Christmas gift, but I can’t complete it in time - I’m terribly sorry for the delay, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as a new year present instead!
> 
> This time we will be switching our pov to Arthur, so please be prepared to witness the horror of the mental asylum. This chapter may feel like lemon, but I doubt it will be as sweet as that, unfortunately. In no way do I condone the actions shown here, nor do I approve of it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I wish I own Hetalia, but I sadly don’t. 
> 
> Warnings: This chapter is very dark, and I have updated the tags because of it. You’ve been warned if you cannot stomach torture, please stay away from this chapter! Contains nudity, electrical shock torture, incontinence, forced diapering, and caning.

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”  
 **― Laurell K. Hamilton, _Mistral's Kiss_**

* * *

Cold air brushed across the shivering figure lying on the hard mattress.

Forest green eyes wide open, England attempted to suppress the tingly feeling that had crept up from his bladder. It could not have been the tea that he had drunk before he went to bed; he was always too sick to leave the bed on the fourth of July, let alone having the heart to brew a kettle of tea.

The image of the leering Doctor Myers flashed through his mind, and England was reminded of how gleeful he was when he shoved a diaper in his face. The smug smirks that had appeared on the faces of the guards who had escorted him to his cell when they had forced the drugs down his throat and injected the unknown solution into his body had made him increasingly anxious.

He would dwell on it further if not for the need to relieve himself becoming a pressing matter.

Frantic eyes scanned the cell for a toilet seat. Finding none, his breath quickened. He did not want to be played into the evil doctor’s plans like a fiddle. Struggling to get out of his bonds, the British nation soon discovered his resistance was futile; the restraints of his bed had been firm and unyielding, and his hands were wrapped by the straitjacket tightly.

_No, please… I don’t want to wet the bed…_

His desperate plea was not heard. No amount of shuffling or attempts of rubbing his legs together could relent the need. It did not take long before his body gave way to the natural instinct, and he could feel wetness drenching his underwear and the bedsheet he was lying on, the scent drifting into his nose as an undeniable fact.

Lying in his wet bed, the Brit tried to coax himself into a slumber, too ashamed to think and reflect further.

* * *

He was rudely aroused by the orderlies barging into his prison. Dreading the moment they would discover that he had wet himself, he crossed his legs together the best he could with the straps and shut his eyes tightly in a desperate attempt to hide the embarrassing incident.

His effort was thwarted as Michael and Jeremy surged forward, going straight for his legs and forcing them apart with a knowing smirk.

“Ha, pissed yourself like a baby, don’t cha? Should have worn your diaper, now we can see that you have peed yourself!” Michael’s hungry eyes had not left his gaze away from his undergarment.

The commander laughed heartily when he saw the predicament his inmate was in. “Maybe that’s what he wants! Don’t rule that out, you saw how excited he was yesterday!”

Jeremy’s hand had a firm grip on Arthur’s thighs, forcing him to keep himself exposed. “Do you really think you can hide that from us? Your cell stinks, and I’d be blind if I miss your large yellow wet patch.”

“You know, you were given diuretic pills and we have injected you with a muscle relaxant. The pills will be a daily intake, but the muscle relaxant is a one-time wonder. In case you’re wondering, the pills will increase your production of urine and increase the need for you to pee. The injection has already caused your bladder muscle to lose its ability to contract and hold your piss, so you’re now perfectly incontinent as an infant like you’re supposed to be.”

“Up and ready, this is your big day today, we’ve gotta show you off to everyone!”

He was released from the straps and carried in Michael’s strong arms like he weighed nothing in a chair hold position. England blushed in embarrassment, knowing that it was a holding position for a baby. He remembered holding America like that to sate his curiosity when he was just a small child in his arms, craving his attention and care.

The team of guards had carried him to the elevator downstairs to where the canteen was located. It seemed that most of the other patients on the same floor had already left for their breakfast as the door to the cells were open, and the rooms, devoid of any personality like Arthur’s room, were being cleaned.

“First thing first, you will be fed before we start curing your troubled mind. Don’t worry, even for bastards like you, we have food to spare. You will eat with other patients in the facility under our scrutiny. Don’t try anything funny, or you will regret it.”

The canteen was spacious. Divided into different zones, it had been designated to house all of the patients in the facility. At each side of the canteen, there is a long white table with accompanying benches; next to them were leather chairs with attaching chains. A line of highchairs were placed in the heart of the room, making them undoubtedly the centre of the attention.

Jeremy laughed as he introduced the canteen to his unwilling prisoner. “The sides are for the minimum security patients. We usually let them eat by themselves with a guard or two supervising each table. The chairs are for the medium-security ones, they will be assigned into small groups and eat with their arms chained. Your place is at the highchairs in the very centre; the supermax row for everyone to see your shame and humiliation. All of you are criminals and assholes who deserve every bit of it. You included, Arthur - you won’t get this treatment if you behave well, after all! You must be a failure and a disappointment to those around you to be admitted here.”

A failure and a disappointment.

He had failed his colonies, who had looked to him for protection and care. In the end, he had not been strong enough to keep them safe and sound when the two great wars hit, and he could still see their teary eyes begging him to tell them that it would be alright, that they would be fine when he closed his eyes. He should have known that Germany would not relent and retreat, should have done so much more to prevent his siblings, his children, his loved ones from the clutch of the Axis, to safeguard them and ensure they were out of harm’s way. It was his very responsibility as their guardian, and he had failed spectacularly at that.

He had been a disappointing ally too. He would always remember France’s disbelieving, horrified face when he heard the news that his navy had been fired upon by the Royal Navy. (1) He had replied to America’s desperate letters when he had called upon his assistance, requesting for British reinforcement with a rejection and empty words of comfort. While he had sent a secret troop to help him with training, he had known that America had wanted his open support in the Vietnam War. He dared not to even reject him in his face, afraid of seeing the disappointment and sadness on his cheerful former brother’s face.

The personification swallowed a lump in his throat. He knew it. He knew that he was far from likable; who would want to put up with someone who was grumpy and cynical, a mere relic of the past? He was no longer the ruler of the Seven Seas, his ability to harness the waves had diminished over time, and with it he relinquished his iron grip on the world’s hegemony. Once the world had been freed from his control, all the countries who used to surround him left one by one, until nobody was left in their wake. The only good use for him was his power and strength, as his importance on the international stage weakened, he faded from a useful tool to an undesired burden.

_You deserve this. This is your punishment. Accept your fate._

Trying his best to keep a stiff upper lip, he focused his gaze to his front. Emotional detachment had worked the best in adversities, and he had hoped it would work for him as it had in so many trusty times.

* * *

He was carried to the last highchair in the row. The highchair was designated to be similar to those for infants, and sitting in one had felt foreign. All the eyes in the room had been focused on the patients in highchairs as intended. Arthur lowered his head as he was fastened into it, with Michael and Jeremy moving to stand right behind him.

A bowl of milk porridge and four milk bottles were placed on each of the removable trays attached to the highchairs, with feeding tubes hanging on the sides. It was clear that the milk porridge would not be enough to keep the patients well-fed, but it had not seemed to be the intention of the asylum. The breakfast was merely a necessity to feed them something for survival, and it was more of a humiliation than taking care of their basic needs.

That was when a bell chimed, signaling that the breakfast session had started. Jeremy leaned forward to pry open the Brit’s mouth, as Michael started to scope up a spoonful of porridge to feed him. He sputtered as he was not allowed any time to swallow, but Jeremy’s words had stopped him from spitting the food out.

“Watch it. If you spit it then we will use the feeding tube. You won’t want that in your mouth.”

It had only taken a short while for the patients in the highchairs to finish their food, as it had been forced down to their throats. The orderlies had moved on to their next task with the milk bottles, shoving one in each of their mouths until their charges started to suck on the teat. England had been drinking the milk from the bottle when he heard the mutters from the other patients and their overseers.

“Is that a new one there? He is not wearing a diaper.”

“Duh, he really needs to. Did you see that pee stain? He can’t even hold his piss.”

“None of the supermax ones can, all of them will not have bladder control. Don’t feel sad for them, all of them are scoundrels who can only redeem themselves by starting over. If you don’t behave, then you will join them as incontinent little babies. Now eat up.”

England could feel tears burning in the corner of his eyes as he heard them talking about him in such contempt. The fact that his current appearance was nothing but shameful did not escape the Englishman, but it still hurt to realise how despicable he was in the eyes of the others.

The toll of the bell marked the end of the torturous breakfast. Each of the patients was hurled up from their highchairs and herded into a queue, ready for inspection and to face the treatment of the day.

* * *

Michael and Jeremy strode forward, tugged him up by reaching underneath his armpits, and gripped his arms as if he was a child waiting to be picked up. Yanking him forward by tugging on the belt hanging from his straitjacket, he was forcefully escorted to the company of a small group of patients, their bodies being searched and examined before being marched to the room where they would receive their treatment.

He did not have to wait for long as an orderly responsible for body search approached them, eyes gleaming in mirth as he noticed they had a newcomer among them.

Grabbing England roughly, he took the straitjacket off with practiced ease. In England’s disappointment, he had snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists swiftly, leaving no room for the nation to retaliate. Hands roamed his torso, pinching his nipples as the orderly looked him up and down in a suggestive manner, as if he was a meat waiting to be devoured.

“Such a pretty boy. Shame that you are insane enough to end up in the supermax mix. I am happy to see such a lovely face around though, we will surely be close later.” With a last flick to his nipples, the orderly reluctantly dressed England back into the straitjacket and moved onto his next step.

“Legs open wide. Good, I see you have already pissed yourself. Seems like you have been adjusting to your new life pretty well, don’t you?” Putting his hands on his crotch, the orderly gave it a few pats before pulling the soiled undergarment down, leaving the nation bare for all to see.

Without any warning, a finger was pushed inside, stretching him as the man crouched down and peeked into his most intimate area, poking and rubbing as his finger went. England had never felt so humiliated, biting his lips until drawing blood, until the feeling of cloth sliding in front of his privates told him that the inspection had ended.

“I’m finished here, he’s ready for the induction ceremony. Everyone must be excited to see him. Get him up to the stage, you two!”

Induction ceremony?

The Brit had no idea what that would entail, but he was certain that it would not be anything positive. Nothing in this hospital had been remotely positive.

* * *

His instinct had not failed him. He was carried over the shoulders to the empty stage located at the far end of the canteen, where a crowd had gathered as the patients were ushered to the stage upon completing their checks. England’s eyes widened as he recognised the man walking onto the stage as Dr Myers. As if he could feel England’s piercing glare, the physician turned to his direction and offered the bound nation with a sickeningly sweet smile before clearing his throat for his speech.

“As all of you know, the maximum-security inmates are dangerous people and must be kept in check at any time. Today we have a newcomer into the batch; for all of your safety, he will be introduced to you right away. If you see him wandering around without his guards, report to us immediately.”

England was carried onto the platform upon the words, in perfect view for the audience.

“This is Arthur Kirkland, admitted for obsessive behaviours. He is diagnosed with a grave case of schizophrenia, along with multiple personality and behavioural disorders. He has a tendency to resort to violence if things do not go his way, so be careful when approaching him.”

“Get him ready for the photo.” His words were eerily calm, but the small nation could detect the underlying glee. Knowing the man, England knew what happened next would be distasteful at best.

Before he could mentally prepare himself, Jeremy started to rub the front of the briefs England was wearing, massaging his member through the thin cloth. The petite nation flushed, his face burning up as his witnesses were watching him intently, clearing enjoying the sight.

Despite his best effort to prevent it, he could feel himself getting aroused. The vast number of colonies he possessed might suggest that he had his fair share of frivolous trysts, but the empire’s secret romantic side had him pining for true love, and he had refrained from indulging in any sexual behaviours without heartfelt emotions. He had been celibate, still waiting for the one he yearned for. He had never thought that he would be violated in such ways; and to his horror, his body had gone against his will.

Jeremy had a lopsided grin as he felt the warm organ stiffen and trembled. “He is hard. We can get the camera over here now - Oh?” Feeling that his fingers had started to get wet, the guard withdrew his hand from the crotch of his victim, only to find the briefs had developed a wet spot that had been rapidly getting larger, until the thin fabric was unable to hold the liquid and a yellow puddle had taken an appearance on the floor. Emerald eyes widened in horror and his face burning up in shame, England wanted to expire on the spot. He could not believe what had happened, but the dripping sounds, usually so quiet, had been amplified by the silent room and he could hear it coming from between his legs as if it was thunder.

“I am sure you have all been waiting for this moment. The patient in all his naked glory! Not to mention he has just proved to you how much he needed this treatment, wetting himself in front of such a big audience is something that only a freak will do, after all!” His two guards had started removing his straitjacket and shackled him instead, handing him a sign detailing the forged diagnosis. The drenched cloth which was the only thing preserving his modesty was then peeled off, leaving him completely bare to hundreds of ravenous eyes.

With the distinct snap of cameras taking shots, England knew he was being photographed, his shame being stored on the films. It had been hard to withhold the tears, knowing that he had been forced to stoop this low, but he knew his cries and sobs would only add to the sadistic pleasure of his observers, and the last thing he had wanted was for them to be even happier for his misfortune.

“Many of you are criminals who have escaped the judgment of law with your insanity as an excuse, but justice will always be served. This will act as the mugshot that you will receive if you have gone to the prison, like all you vermins deserve.” Dr Meyers’s eyes had a glint of cruelty as he examined his subject, nodding in satisfaction. “No, we are better than that. You will be able to wear a prison uniform that preserves your dignity, still being able to preach and radicalise in a prison. We break apart your evil souls and mold you into a new person who will repent for your crimes. You will surely learn to know your place when you need to stand stark naked, with an inability to control when to relieve yourself, to understand that you have acted like an infant who cannot distinguish rights and wrongs and have to be taught about them and will be treated as such.”

“I hope this serves as a reminder to all of the patients in the facility that you have to work to improve yourself, or you will end up like Arthur here. Now, off you go to your treatments.” The doctor dismissed the crowd with a wave and took his departure, leaving the victim of the spectacle team of guards that accompanied him.

“Good show there, baby. Really, peeing in the middle of the ceremony? That’s a new low, even for you. You surely want to be famous, don’t you?” Michael was holding his straitjacket, but he did not seem like he was going to force him into it again. England was relieved as his arms had started to ache after spending a night in it, but he knew better than lowering his guard and relaxing.

“Easy for you to say that when he did not pee on your hand! Eww, now my hand stinks!” Jeremy pulled the wet briefs back onto him, ignoring the soft whimper England made when he did so.

England kept his head lowered, knowing that the two had deliberately said that to shame him further, as if he had not been humiliated enough. He was hoisted up again, this time not over the shoulder as his orderlies did not want to get their uniform dirty; instead, his arms were pulled back with his back up straight as they marched him away to another torment, making sure his stained pants was on display and hard to miss for any passerby.

“Time for your first treatment, baby. Don’t worry too much, we are being soft on you today. Just a few shocks to correct your evil thoughts, and you will be sent for dinner.”

* * *

Michael and Jeremy hoisted his body up as they began to make their way to their destination. England could see all the eyes on him as they continued their walk, his crotch was still dribbling, and the briefs had been wet and uncomfortable. He could hear all the jeers and insults aimed his way, and despite his efforts, he knew they were getting to him as he could no longer deny how low he had fallen to.

They had stopped walking as the guards had taken him to a room with a queue full of orderlies flanking their patients. Most of them had kept their gazes on the floor, meek and obedient. It was not hard to imagine why all of them had looked reserved and terrified, with most of them diapered, it was clear that they were all in the same category as the nation, and for a longer period of time.

The line had been slow, but England would not want to have it the other way. He had seen the sign “Electrotherapy” on the plaque next to the wall, nor did he miss how shaken the patients which had exited from the closed doors were. He dreaded the moment when it was his turn, but Michael and Jeremy had not allowed him a way out as they dragged him along, pushing the double doors of the room open.

The scent of sanitisers entered his nostrils as he surveyed the place. It was barren, with only a few filing cabinets, a wooden chair with restraints, connected through electrical wires to the machine sitting on the table next to it. The doctor standing next to the machine beckoned the two orderlies to get to work without sparing a glance, used to the routine.

England recognised the electroconvulsive therapy device instantly and started to pull himself back ferociously, wanting an escape from being shocked. Having been subjected to various tortures during wars, usually for extraction of information, he had experienced a wide array of torture devices and had trained his body to have a fairly high pain tolerance despite how sensitive it was, but being electrocuted was among the most painful ones.

“Trying to run? Is it a bit late for that now? You won’t end up this way if you are a good boy. Now stay down and suffer the consequences!” He was no match for the two men bound, and soon he was being rounded up and strapped down tightly to the wooden chair.

The doctor administering the process finally turned to face his subject, emotionless eyes peering at him behind the round glasses as he started to attach clips to his nipples and inner thighs, complete with a black collar around his neck and a helmet on his head.

The dreaded shock came as tingling feelings at first, but the voltage had gradually increased as the doctor started to test his tolerance before settling on one. With a definite clink, electricity started to flow into his body. The chair rattled as the body imprisoned on it jolted and spasmed uncontrollably.

"Amazing, taking 250 milliamperes is no easy feat… This is an interesting specimen. Nice work, you have given me a great test subject!” A spark of wonder broke the doctor’s indifferent countenance as he observed the meter of the machine.

The group of onlookers turned to their prisoner when a gushing sound joined the rattling of the chair to find that the yellowish spot on the white underwear had amplified, with a steady flow of urine rushing out of the confinement of the cotton, rapidly forming a puddle underneath the chair.

“Not so powerful now, manipulative bastard? You are peeing all over yourself again, not so much of an exemplary big brother now, are you?”

“I doubt anyone can feel powerful when they are being shocked out of their lives! His little brothers and sisters will love to see this for sure.”

England trembled when he heard the mention of his siblings.

_Would they be happy, seeing him ridiculed, degraded, and humiliated?_

He had wanted to say no, that they wouldn’t, but then he remembered.

_None of them had stayed._

He was _alone_. His house, which used to be full of life and joy, had been empty for decades. His colonies would not come back, having departed without even a spare glance at the man who had taken care of them.

Every night, England had wondered in the house that was way too big now, reminiscing the times when he had his arms full of smiling children; only to be disappointed by the coldness and emptiness of his home.

Tears threatened to fall as he realised that the answer was not a definite no.

His heart quivered when the memories of his colonies snarling at him entered his mind, death threats and cruel wishes hurled towards him in rage as they argued with their colonial master.

Maybe they would feel _overjoyed._ The person who used to tower over them was now a mess, punished for every wrong he had done to them in the past.

_Revenge is a dish best served cold._

A scream tore through the nation’s throat as the doctor turned the voltage up again, with another stream of urine erupting out of him, as waves of laughter rang throughout the room.

It had seemed forever when the doctor finally shut down the machine and the straitjacket was forced onto him again as he was led away from the chair. The bell for supper tolled, saving him further humiliation as the guards pulled him out of the room swiftly to the canteen for the meal.

* * *

The nation had long lost all of his appetite, but once again, he was put into the highchair, a bowl of milk porridge and bottles of milk in front of him.

“Those will be all you will eat here. Eat up, those are good for little babies.” Shoving the spoon into the small Brit’s mouth, it was clear they were stifling their chuckles when they saw him choking on the food.

Just when he hoped the dinner would go on without a hiccup, his wish was denied. His body was still quivering slightly with the amount of electricity he had been in contact with, and he could barely feel it. It was only when people around him started to point and guffaw that he realised that he had been pissing himself unconsciously. The high chair certainly did not hide his incident, leaving him for all to see. Worse of all, he was still being forced to suck on the teat of the milk bottle, which had only accelerated the rate of urine coming out of him.

He wasn’t aware when the dinner had ended, too embarrassed to even look up, unable to escape from his accident as the evidence was all on the floor. Offering no protest when he was picked up by the guards, England had only realised that he was no longer in the hall of shame when he found himself being escorted to Dr Myers’s room again, his guards knocking on the door.

The commander was inside the room with the doctor, and both of them looked up when the three of them entered the physician’s chambers.

“Look who’s back! Let’s have a little review and wrap today up with your daily spanking. It is your first day, so I’m going easy on you. Don’t get used to it.”

“Do you want your diaper? You have gone an entire day without it, and let's see how you did... “ The doctor looked down at the clipboard which had England’s daily report attached to it. “What a record, you have urinated yourself for five times! No wonder why your briefs are so smelly... “ He wrinkled his nose, glancing at England’s drenched undergarment, making the nation conscious of the smell of urine he had tried to evade from.

“Now, I have a proposal for you. You can wear a pair of fresh underwear each day, but we will only allow you to change out of it at the end of the day. You will have to wear it regardless of whether you have an incident or not. And trust me, you will, if today is not a clear indication. Of course, if you want to exhibit your incontinence, that’s a fine decision and I applaud you for it.”

“Alternatively, you can opt for wearing a diaper like you are supposed to. We will change your diaper once it is soiled and wipe your privates clean so you will be comfortable. Since you are new and still adjusting, I am feeling kind and have decided to give you a choice. Decide once I finish your spanking; note that the offer will not come again. What you have decided will be final and you will be stuck with whatever choice you opt for.” With a wave of his hand towards the commander, the brawny man had left the room, only to return with a wooden stool and a cane.

“Arthur Kirkland. For your performance today, you will be receiving 40 strikes. 5 for each time you have wet yourself, 5 extra for disobedience, and 10 extra for wearing a pair of boxers instead of the diaper you deserved. Further urinating during the spanking will earn you 5 more strikes each time you do. Am I clear?”

England froze. Having lived through centuries of conquests, wars, and destruction, he was no stranger to torture. Yet, every time he had braved through them standing tall and proud, instead of being reprimanded like a child. He was a warrior fighting for his land and people with his life, not a rowdy boy who had to be disciplined.

He had bided his time when the guards had released him from the straitjacket, trying to land a punch on the commander’s face; but his fists were swiftly caught by the brute, his wrists being cuffed again as the man took out a pair of handcuffs from his pockets with astounding speed. He was soon thrown down on the stool unceremoniously, the doctor tutting as he approached the defiant nation, who was being tied to the stool with ropes and shackles, his bottom facing the ceiling.

“Still get that fighting spirit within you, I see. 20 more strokes will do you good, I think. Count the smacks for me, you will be spanked more if you miss one. Understood?”

England gritted his teeth, not wanting to grace the despicable man with an answer. The lack of response did not seem to bother Dr Myers, who had been enticed by the cane on his hand instead.

The first strike came and England cried out much to his indignation. He could barely breathe, but he knew he had to count if he wanted to end his suffering at the first opportunity.

“O-One…”

“Two…”

“T-Three!"

"Four - It h-hurts!”

His voice was a raspy murmur, clearly struggling to calm himself after the forceful impacts.

The cracks had gone on without ever relenting, and England could feel his bottom bruising and burning every time the cane had landed a hit. Working his lips to stop himself from screaming, the petite nation could feel the formation of a bruise on them over his abuse.

He had thought it was over when the smacking had come to an abrupt stop, before he could feel the sensation of fluid rushing down his legs. Shutting his eyes tightly, he knew he had wet himself before the doctor announced it.

“5 more strikes for wetting.”

The cane had once again cracked on his behinds mercilessly, and England could feel urine dribbling out of him as it had become harder and harder to retain control over his body as enduring the pain had been increasingly difficult.

“Be a dear and tell me, have you come to your final decision?” He was left panting on the stool when the caning had finally ended, and the doctor leaned towards his charge, whispering to him in a sickly sweet voice.

England blushed as he nodded, gaze fixating on the ground as if it was the most interesting thing in the entire world. He could not believe what he was about to consent to.

“Go on. What’s it?”

“I will… take the nappy…” He could barely utter the sentence, mortified that he had made the choice out of his own will.

“Great, I see you have come to your senses. Donelly, I am finished for the day. Take him to the shower and diaper him afterward. It’s getting late, and our patient should be off to bed like a good kid.”

The commander grinned in response as he hurled him up over his broad shoulders and left the doctor to his own devices.

 _Donelly?_ England jolted when he heard the Irish surname. Thoughts of his brothers evaded his mind. Northern Ireland and Ireland… What were they doing now?

_Would they be gleeful too when they saw me in pain?_

Squeezing his eyes tight, he tried to ward off the image of the violent split with the Irish nation and kept the recollection of the North Irish teenager yelling at him spitefully locked away, but it was as if a trigger had been pulled upon, and the scenes kept replaying in his head until he was close to tears.

He was not allowed any time to dwell on his misery as the eager guards did not waste a moment dragging him to the shower room, which he had visited the previous day. Once again, he was held down as Donelly inserted his fingers inside his entrance and massaged his prostate, before washing him with cold water and dunking his head into an iron bucket to wash his hair. He was not allowed any release, and England knew he was merely a plaything for them; nothing they had done had anything to do with pleasuring him, but simply for their enjoyment to watch him squirm.

He was taken to a station next to the shower when the guards had finished the cleansing, lying down on the flat surface of the unit. Two restraining straps had been hanging down from the ceiling, and the orderlies grabbed his ankles and tied them to each of them, pulling his legs wide apart and exposing his privates.

  
He had been in trepidation after the ordeal with the doctor, but the knowledge that he was being placed on a changing station, about to be diapered, had made fear run rampant in his body and he started to kick violently in a futile attempt to remove his bounds.

Hands were all over him to push him down at once, and England could feel his strength being sapped from him as Donelly had his hands around his neck, suffocating him until he stopped struggling.

An ointment oil had been applied once he was lying helplessly on the station again, the substance being massaged onto his most intimate areas. They had certainly taken their time, touching his cock and his entrance until both of them were shiny and leaking.

Baby powder was then sprinkled onto his crotch as they coated him with it, while the smell of the powder might be soothing, the hands that were conducting the process had not provided any comfort to him.

He heard the crinkle produced by the diaper before he actually saw it. It was snowy white and very thick, clearly for nighttime use, and made to absorb a large amount of discharged fluids. His rump was lifted off the flat surface of the platform when the diaper was slipped underneath him, his privates being arranged to the correct position, and the contraption being pulled up to his belly button and fastened tightly.

A translucent plastic cover was then slid over his legs, encasing the diaper completely.

“Your diaper will turn yellow once you need a change, and we will change you when it does. Most of you have a weak bladder though, and will piss several times before we get to change you, so you will wear the plastic covers to prevent you from peeing all over the place like you had today. It was a disaster to clean up after you today, so I am glad to see that you have finally seen the error of your ways!”

“Now, I think you already know that attempting to remove your diaper will get you punishment really quick, but many of our patients will also love to get their hands into their diapers to do naughty things to themselves, which will also earn you a spanking if you do. Don’t worry, they all find the diaper to be comforting and a necessity to have after a while, I’m sure you will be one of them sooner or later. Now, boys, get him back to his room to sleep tight. He has a long day ahead of him, so best to get a good night’s sleep.” His two accompanying orderlies nodded and locked him into a new straitjacket with the old one being taken to the laundry, before tugging on the strap of the restrictive clothing to lead him back to his prison cell.

The plastic ridge pressed into England’s thighs and the hefty layers of paddings had not been oppressive, serving as a constant reminder of his degradation. The bulkiness of the diaper had forced his legs wide, rendering them unable to be closed completely, and England found that he could no longer walk with his back straight and was forced to waddle with the diaper between his legs as they made their way back slowly.

He was shoved inside his room once they had reached their destination. To his surprise, the guards had taken his straitjacket off, allowing his arms to rest. He was sorely disappointed when they had strapped him to his bed again, preventing him from any movement.

They had soon taken their departure afterward, but not without rubbing the rear of their victim roughly, knowing he was still hurting from the spanking.

“Naughty boy. It seems like you have something to remember by tonight. Good luck sleeping with your sore ass, but this certainly serves you right!”

His buttocks were on fire, but it was not the only thing hurting the helpless nation.

Amidst the pain, one question rang through England’s head.

_Who had sent him here?_

Said person obviously knew him well, as they were able to not only name him but also _pinpoint his location_ and _utilised his relationship with his former colonies as a leverage._

_Would it be one of them? The other nations who he had been acquainted with, fought with, befriended with for centuries?_

Loneliness was his constant companion. He had always been the odd one in Europe; failing to fit in, he had accepted the fact and learnt to thrive in isolation. Even though he had been singing the tune of freedom and relished carefree adventures, he had stared in envy whenever friends roared in laughter, families enveloping in embraces, and couples holding hands coming into view.

He knew he was not the best at emotional expression. That he had many unresolved histories with several nations, but to warrant this… _To be confined in a psychiatric hospital with no escape and endless abuses..._

_Was he really that hated?_

_That he had to be got rid of by sending him into a mental asylum for torture and humiliation?_

England bit his lips tightly, trying his very best to stop the tears from flowing out.

_Unwanted._

_Unneeded._

_Unloved._

And to realise that was more painful than any torture they had put him through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1): Attack on Mers-el-Kébir, part of the British plan Operation Catapult in WWII. It was a plan to prevent French warships from falling into German hands, which caused 1297 deaths and 350 wounded as the French casualties. 
> 
> This chapter is so long that it even amazes me, but I hope this suffices for a belated Christmas gift and a present for the new year!! I have wanted to write out an entire day for poor Artie here, and it had seemed best to write the entirety of it in one chapter. 
> 
> This is just the beginning of the Iggy torture - this institute can and will do things much worse to Arthur. I see Arthur as strong but sensitive, trying to dismiss things even when they are hurting him, and the torment and humiliation he has been put through will start to make him doubt his self-worthiness, and that will be the downfall of him. 
> 
> Next time, we will see more new characters making their debuts. Until next time, please stay safe and happy 2021, everyone!


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